The Nine-Minute Ritual

By Desdmona

This story contains sexually explicit scenes.

The room looks gray; not drab like prison gray, but soft, like undertones that early morning causes right before sunrise. My eyes peek open and beyond the blur of sleep I can make out the shadows of furniture, large windows and the lighted numbers on the clock radio.

The alarm is about to go off. My body stiffens from lying too long in one position. I turn to my side and stretch, and then curl back up in a semi-fetal position. The air is cool outside of the down comforter. I pull it over my bare shoulder, tuck it under my chin and close my eyes, pretending I don’t know it’s time to get up again.

He stirs beside me. I lay quietly hoping he will bring his warmth a little closer. He complies as if reading my mind and snuggles up behind me in the coveted “spoon” position.

He takes the opportunity of my outstretched arm to slip his hand under and cup my naked breast. I shiver, but not from the cool air that invades our warm cocoon.

The nine-minute ritual is about to begin.

I snuggle back down into his embrace. His long, lean body presses firmly against my backside and surrounds my fuller curves. I’ve heard the phrase “fits like a glove” and indeed he does. There’s not a spot between us that even liquid could seep through.

His fingers graze the outer portion of my breast and then timidly work towards the nipple. Soft, little pets cause me to tingle and my nipple hardens, begging to be noticed. He kneads the fleshy part, ignoring the raised tip. The nipple and areola pucker, as if to pout.

His wanderings arouse him as evidenced by the lurching of his penis against my lower leg. He senses its need and reaches down to reposition. One quick little tug and it’s resting in the space between my legs caused by my bent frame.

His hand returns to my body, finger- tipping his way across my skin. Nerve endings jettison electricity wherever he touches. His hot breath bathes the back of my neck as his mouth opens and then clamps down in a sucking kiss. I jerk in response and squirm closer to him. He ends the kiss and presses his bristled chin into the same spot. My flesh is raw where he scrapes the stubble back and forth. It’s a sensation that he alone invokes in me. A special spot, connected somehow to my womb. He builds the fire and my body reacts with moisture to assuage it. I begin to ache.

He knows his power and he revels in it as his thickened penis prods deeper. My conscious mind reminds me again of the perfect fit that allows me to feel every slight increase or progression of his intransigent cock, a quirk of our physicality that I adore.

His fingers caress their way back to my breast, and with deliberate force tweak the waiting nipple, pulling it outward and lengthening the nub. I moan and wiggle and mash back against him. Postured like this, I can feel the wet that has dribbled from him. His cock no longer prods or pokes, it slides easily into the exposed slit.

He continues to taunt by pulling his hand away and slaking it across my stomach and over my hip, stopping briefly to grab my pelvic bone. And then sliding over my groin, he teases my pubic hair and tugs on it gently. Instinctively, my legs slip apart. His fingers probe further, touching the head of his penis as it pushes forward between us.

I’m alive with the idea of him touching himself as he touches me. The back of his palm mushes between my labia and rests against my clitoris. His outspread fingers reach his penis and pull it towards my center. His breathing becomes ragged behind me, while my own lungs burn, gulping to get air.

“I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION…” The music jolts us, and in unison, we groan. The irony doesn’t elude us. Mick is not alone this morning. I consider jabbing the snooze button again when I hear the footsteps clomping across the floor below me. Funny, I hadn’t heard a sound during those nine minutes.

I tell him I have to go. He rasps out, “I know.” I sit up, still slick with what might have been, and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I shudder, only this time it’s because of the chilly air.

I dress and clumber my way down the steps. My teenage daughters argue over who’s wearing what, as we walk into the garage. I choose not to referee this morning and instead stare at the clock on the dashboard of the car. It had been nine minutes ago. I squirm in my seat, feeling the moisture that remains. I pray it only takes nine minutes to return home.